


Off the Grid

by minkmix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 15:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkmix/pseuds/minkmix
Summary: Outside POV - a hardcore survivalist meets a couple guys that are weirder than he is.





	Off the Grid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mypersonalmika](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mypersonalmika).



He had a cramp in his leg.

One of those bad ones that felt like your muscles had been tied into knots and set on fire.

Sitting very still in the dense camouflage of the shade he'd set up the night before, he adjusted the position of his mounted rifle. Like an assassin on a roof. The ghost shooter from the grassy knoll. A solider on his self made battle field. He smiled to himself, wiping the rain off his weapon's telescopic site before looking through it carefully again. It provided him a perfect vantage of the one dirt road that lead up this way.

Not many people knew how to get here. And if they knew, he was the one who told them how. And only after some screening and a slow process to confirm their legitimacy to the lifestyle. It was like earning his special password and gaining his tenuous but sovereign trust. He smiled again. He was like the entire crew of the A-Team wrapped into one man. Although he took pride in the term that truly and adequately described his might.

Survivalist: One who has personal or group survival as a primary goal in the face of difficulty, opposition, and especially the threat of natural catastrophe, nuclear war, or societal collapse.

He was ready for all three. Truth be told, he was even hoping for a race war somewhere in there too.

Back in the 60's his friends and family had scoffed when he had sold his two story house in the suburbs and taken off for the forests of eastern Oklahoma. His wife had lasted almost a total of seven days out here with him before she took the kids and headed back to the land of plumbing and strip malls.

Seven days. It was all so biblical.

But now?

He knew that if it were all to go down tomorrow just exactly who would be at his bunker doorstep looking for shelter. Who'd be laughing then? His subterranean abode was filled to the rafters with canned and freeze dried rations, deep cycle batteries, a water purification system, ham radio set up and medical supplies that could last him years if need be. He could kick back and watch the mushroom clouds until the dust settled and he and those like him could start the work of getting things back in order. The order that they should have been in the first place.

But the land wasn't quite for free just yet. And even with all his attempts to stay off the grid, he still needed gas for his truck. And although he hadn't paid state tax, or any kind of tax for that matter since 1971, he did have to pay that old dirty smear of the nearest town for his malt whiskey and smokes. So he did what any red blooded American would do in a free capitalist society. He started a business.

It was small at first. With all the half baked gun laws that changed and shifted throughout the decades, the good old boys he ran with often came to him for things that they couldn't just pick up at the five-and-dime anymore. And what started as just that, started to get a little more busy as the times went on.

The cold war was extremely good to him.

Cuban missile crisis? Nothing but gravy.

Small lull in the relative peace of the late 80s but he made back his profit margin when the president started Desert Storm.

The 90s were nothing to write home about but times got down right fantastic after Bin Laden.

In fact, that elusive bastard had gotten everyone in such a state that he was able to buy a brand new truck, revamp his air filter system in his bunker and take a little holiday down to Mexico. He was even able to set up a much more organized system to run his trade right down into Guyana, Venezuela and Columbia. It was truly a sign of the times when paranoia suddenly became so lucrative.

The sound of tires crunching down the road beyond made him pause.

Seemed like store hours had just started. But he'd watch and wait at first to satisfy himself that this was no FBI jerkoff. They'd been trying to pin him down for years. Almost got lucky a few times too. But never lucky enough. He was too careful. Too quick. And a lot smarter than the collective shit for brains government that couldn't even keep the names of their own under cover agents off the nightly news. The general ineptitude of bumbling authority never ceased to warm his heart.

The car finally came into view.

He blinked twice into the site before looking up over it with a larger solid rubber set of his binoculars. You came to expect a few things from the usual clientele that would make a trip like this out into the middle of nowhere.

The big buyers usually came in Hummers. Or any gigantic shiny all terrain with a decent four wheel drive. The smaller players just looking for what Walmart couldn't hand them were usually in banged up pick up trucks. And the men that were trying to stay stocked for the soon approaching apocalypse usually showed up in shabbier versions of the same complete with a sleeper trailer on the back.

But this was a new one.

He'd never seen anyone show up down ten ragged miles of mud and stream in an old Chevy Impala before. Another brief examination of its black body and he decided it was a 65. He looked again with a squint of his eyes at the mud splattered grill. No, no, definitely a 67. A good old American made car. None of that Asian or Kraut shit.

He immediately approved.

It idled in place.

This client was a smart one.

The car had stopped exactly where he had indicated it should on a GPS. Right on the mark like a treasure map. They weren't using his road like some fucking driveway like most did upon entering his domain. They were following his exact directions. Now this was a real player. This wasn't some amateur looking for the thrill of some outlawed semi automatics. This wasn't anyone hoping to find some police grade body armor. They obviously knew to respect what was being accomplished out here in his part and parcel of the world. With a glance down at his watch he saw it had also arrived within 30 seconds of when he instructed.

Excellent.

The doors opened and slammed closed, two young men stepping out from either side and seemingly in the middle of a conversation.

"What are you kidding me?!"

"I've never been more serious in my entire life Sam."

"Whatever. Ginger Grant was totally hotter."

"She looked like a goddamn drag queen." The young man in a leather jacket stopped to consider the taller of the two. "Maybe that's why you dug her?"

"Yeah well, Mary Ann looked like she should been in some advertisement for raisons or corn oil or something..."

"Yeah, but those shorts and the pig tails..."

"And the clothing made from table cloths really did something for ya huh?"

From the hidden vantage in the foliage, he lowered his rifle in confusion. What the hell was this? He had mold growing in his utility shower that was older than these boys.

"She was home grown dude! From good farm folk!" The other insisted with a grin. "Church going I bet. I'm tellin' you, those chicks are always freaks in the sack."

"Now you're just making shit up. You're romanticizing her country image just to support your position."

"Don't get all uppity just cuz you like a drag queen."

"I don't like a drag quee--"

"Hey man, I may not agree with it but I'll support whatever lifestyle you choose. Now Dad on the other hand--"

It pleased him that they were startled into shutting up when he stepped out of the dense cover of bushes.

Quickly holding up their hands due to the fact that he had his weapon cocked and raised, he backed them up until they were pressed against their Chevy. They were taking a good look at his elaborate green and black army makeup and the twigs he'd professionally arrayed in his flack helmet.

"One of you Winchester?" He used his solider voice. The one Steven Seagal always used right before he was about to open a few cans of whoop ass.

"That depends?" The one that had been babbling about drag queens ventured.

"Oh yeah?" He used the barrel of his weapon to flip back their jackets to check for any concealed firearms. "On what?"

"If you want to shoot 'em." The boy explained with a forced smile and a nervous swallow. "Because if you do? We are definitely not that guy."

"Had an appointment." A finger worked on the trigger. "With someone named Winchester."

The two seemed a little more than confused with that information.

"You lookin' for some plasticine charges? Time delay landmines? Radiation fall out suits?"

The boys exchanged a look between themselves.

The tall one cleared his throat.

"More like, Kinnikinnick, Horehound, Wood Betony and some uh, Acacia leaf."

Leaf? That could only mean one thing. If there was only one thing he disliked more than the government it was this.

"There aren't no drugs here." He growled in his best warning growl.

Hippy, no good, leaf smoking, tree hugging drains on society. Maybe if he just shot them both now they wouldn't breed and make anymore little liberal pot head Clinton loving immigrant petting no good--

The tall one interrupted his train of thought with a groan.

"Oh man, look, the guy that gave us your name said you ran a Wiccan apothecary commune..."

"A whicha what now?" The hand that was holding up the gun barrel faltered a little bit.

"They're not drugs um exactly, they promote energy that is used to prevent jinxes, to remove evil spirits from the home and um, channel malevolent forces through the dimensionless plains of the phantasmagorical."

He blinked at them.

"Dude," The guy hissed to the shorter one next to him. "I told you it was weird that some Earth Mother would tell you that there might be a full body cavity search."

"Yeah, and in Morse Code." The other nodded with a sigh to himself. "You know how those gals love that home made stationary."

Shifting uncertainly in place he lowered the rifle and tipped it back on his shoulder with a sigh.

"Uh, w-why don't you just go ahead and get the hell out of here?"

Eyes still on the business end of the gun, the one in the jacket broke into a grateful smile. "Great idea! We'll do that."

"Right now."

"Yes sir!" They said in unison.

They were back in their vehicle before he could suggest that they make it snappy. He watched them not even bother to turn the vintage car around in favor of just heading out in a high speed reverse.

He thought he might be wrong about them being a couple of those tie dyed hippies.

Those two? They were just fucking crazy.

He waited until he could no longer hear the sound of the engine before he tiredly shook his head and looked back down at his watch. It was time to get back to the bunker for some franks-n-beans and a beer.

In fact, if he really moved his ass, he would be just in time for the new episode of the 'Gilmore Girls'.


End file.
